


Myron son of Alexias

by Kizzykat



Category: Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, The Last of the Wine, The Last of the Wine - Mary Renault
Genre: Erastes, Eromenos, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 05:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16675078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzykat/pseuds/Kizzykat
Summary: The historian Ephorus of Kyme said that it was the tradition for an erastes to abduct a young boy he had chosen as his eromenos, hold him captive for a few days and then send him home with expensive presents, usually including a bull which the family sacrificed and feasted on.  This episode marked the boy's initiation into adulthood.This is the story of Alexias's father Myron and his erastes Cleon.





	Myron son of Alexias

**Myron by Kizzykat**

 

_Attica, Greece c 440 BC_

 

Naked, I walked soft-footed out of the bedroom and stood in the colonnade's shade, the cool, silky dust of summer on the tiles beneath my feet and the balmy warmth of the early morning air caressing my skin.  I stared without thought at the garden beyond the columns of the colonnade, the rising sun's golden light touching the sage and rosemary bushes, insects already buzzing around the flowers in the sun's warmth.

I heard my lover leave the bedroom and move up behind me.  My heart beat hard.  I could feel the close proximity of his warmth and bulk.  He was a big man in the prime of life.  He slid his arms around my ribs and pulled me against his sculptured muscles, squeezing me tightly.

He bent his head and placed a kiss on my shoulder.  "Did you sleep well, son of Alexias?" he murmured, his voice husky with sleep.

"Yes," I said, moving my head aside so that he should not kiss me. 

His hand pressed on my stomach and slid down towards my genitals as he enveloped me.  I pulled myself out of his embrace and stepped towards the low wall separating the colonnade from the garden.  My heart was racing as I placed my hand on one of the wooden columns.  I could hear his breath of surprise behind me.  I forced myself to turned round and face my lover.

He was a handsome man, strongly built and with a body sculptors would use to depict the gods of war.  He was a renowned soldier and any boy would be honoured to be chosen as his lover, as I had been.  He was the ideal of manhood to initiate a boy into adulthood and teach him how to be a noble soldier and a virtuous man.  But I did not want him.

He had performed the ritual abduction and taken me from my home with the full consent of my family yesterday.  He would hold me 'captive' for a few days before sending me home with expensive presents and we would make sacrifice to the gods for their favour.  He would be recognised as my erastes, and I could be seen in his company amongst men with honour and approbation, it being known that he had taken me under his wing to initiate me into the ways of manhood.

But I did not want him now, and I did not know why.  He had been nothing but courteous to me since yesterday, careful as he knew it was my first time.  He had spoken to me as an equal as we dined last night, making allowances for my youthful ignorance, but I was too nervous to make much conversation.  Cleon did not seem much practised in the art of conversation and we retired early.

I had been flattered when he had first made his intentions known: my father had been pleased that such a well-known warrior had sought out his son, and I had been too full of my own importance to consider what I thought of the man himself.

I could not explain even to myself why I did not want this man as my lover.  I lacked the words or the thoughts.  I did not think I could spend the rest of my life in his intimate company, and I did not know why.  I knew him to be well thought of in the neighbourhood, but I did not think he was a noble man now.  He had done nothing to make me feel so, but I feared him.  And my fear was growing as I considered telling him I did not want to be his lover and wanted to go home now.  I did not want to go back into that room or into that bed.

I looked at him as watched me with a slight frown.  "What is it?" he said.

I tried to smile at him.  He would think me a child if I told him I wanted to go home.  Briefly I considered spending the day with him to see if I could grow used to his company, but the thought brought me close to panic.  I knew if I did not leave now, I would lose my courage.  I would not live a lie.

I straightened and said, "Cleon, I thank you for your hospitality and your kindness to me.  However I do not wish to be your eromenos anymore."

His face became harsh.  "What?"

"I wish to go home now."

"Why?"  His face looked ugly.  "You are not a child. Be a man."

My heart was beating so hard it threatened to choke me.  I searched desperately for an answer.  "I am not a child, but you are too old," I blurted out.

He hit me.  I found myself on the tiles of his colonnade with what felt like a thunderburst against my cheekbone.  I was stunned for a breath or two, then scrambled quickly to my feet lest he think me a weakling.  I faced him defiantly.  If he hit me again, I would hit him back.  I found I had half-raised my fists.

He was staring at me like a thunderously angry Zeus.

"Myron son of Alexias, get out of my house and never return."

"I will not walk out naked.  I need my clothes."

He spread his arm towards the bedroom.  I was nervous to walk past him, within his reach, but he gave me no ground.  I moved past him carefully, watching his eyes for any sign of movement.

"You are a fool, boy," he said contemptuously.

I gave no answer.  He was clearly my enemy now.  I backed into the bedroom, turned and collected my things.  Clutching them to my chest, I came back out to the colonnade, but he had gone.  One-armed, I quickly slipped my tunic over my head, afraid to put the rest of my clothes down as I did so.

The slave who let me out of the door stared at me with blatant curiosity.  The story would spread now.  They would think I had left because Cleon had hit me, or that Cleon had thrown me out.  They would think I had been impertinent to him.

I walked as steadily as I could down the road, sure there would be watchers.  Once out of sight of the farm, I finally drew a breath and set my clothes down under an olive tree to dress properly.  I was shaking inside now and felt a desire to cry and my cheek hurt, the blood pounding in it.  I had made a mess of everything.  My father would be so angry and disappointed with me.

Once dressed, I headed uphill through the olive grove.  If I went home by the road, he might come after me, or I might meet people who would want to know my business.  I would go home across country.

Once I had put two hills between myself and Cleon's farm, I stopped beside a small spring in a cleft in the hillside.  I drank my fill of the cold water and bathed my bruised cheek.  Although I could see the swelling below my eye, I did not think the cheekbone was broken, just bruised.  It was not bleeding at least, although he had been wearing a ring.  I did not consider though whether he had ruined my looks for I would never find another lover now: my reputation was ruined.  I was discarded and not worthy of a lover.  I could imagine the welcome I would receive when I got home: my father would berate me and probably beat me; my mother would cry and look at me with disappointment; my older brother would scorn me.  Only my younger brother would begin to understand.

I looked around the narrow, rocky valley.  Perhaps the gods would punish me by making me fall and twist my ankle and I would die here in this deserted place.  Perhaps I deserved it.  I looked back at the spring.  I did not have anything to leave the nymph of the place as a thank-offering so I picked a small purple flower and laid it on a rock beside the spring before I left its sanctuary.

It was late morning before I reached home, hot, tired and hungry and having walked far farther than I needed by mistaking my way several times.  Eventually by continuing to head east, I reached countryside that I recognised and found my way home.

Someone must have seen me coming for, as I reached the house, my mother came hurrying out, my younger brother behind her.  It would be his turn in a couple of years to take an erastes.  My mother stopped on seeing my face, turned to my brother and said, "Fetch your father."  She enfolded me in her arms and drew me into the house, ordering her maids to fetch food and drink, and her medicine box.

Inside, she sat me down, held my hands and looked me in the eyes.  "What happened, my son?"

"I angered him: he hit me, and I came home."

"He came here early this morning," she said anxiously.

"What did he say?"  I asked, frightened he had distressed my parents.

"Your father will tell you, but I believe he said you were impertinent."

"I wasn't!"  I would have said more but the maids came in with food and as I took a welcome drink, my mother applied arnica ointment to my cheek.

My father came in then, trailed by my wide-eyed little brother.  I stood up out of respect for my father, and afraid of what he might say.

"What happened?" he said, his eyes searching my face and body.

"I did not wish to stay with him, father.  He was angry and he hit me, and I left."

My father put his fists on his hips.  "Did you leave because he hit you?"  I realised he was angry, but perhaps not with me.

"No, sir.  I had already made up my mind to leave."

"Why?"

I hesitated.  I did not know how to begin to explain.

"He said you were impertinent.  What did you say to him?"

"I told him he was too old."

"Too old for what?"

"I, I don't know."

A look of exasperation and puzzlement passed over my father's face.  He waved his hand at me.  "Sit, sit," he said as he took a turn about the room.

I did not sit yet but gathered my courage.  "May I ask what he said, sir, and why he came?"

"He is an honourable man.  He came to tell me you had left his house and he wanted to make sure you had arrived home safely.  He said you had exchanged words, you were impertinent, he hit you and you left.  I asked him to wait until you came home but he would not.  He said he did not want you back."

"I am sorry to have caused you problems, sir.  But I did not argue with him."

"Sit down and do not argue with me," my father said distractedly.  He was obviously considering something as he paced about the room.

I sat, and my mother pressed some food on me.  I took a mouthful, glad I had not come home by the road.

"Wife," my father said, "would you leave us please.  You too," he said to my brother.

My mother gathered her medicine box and my brother and left the room, closing the door after her.  I set aside the food and waited for my father to speak.

"This is not for women's ears," he said.  He looked at me.  "Did he hurt you?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

I realised what my father meant.  Truth to tell, I was sore and there were finger marks on my hips, but I was embarrassed to tell him.  "He is a big man, sir," I said at last.  "And he was amorous.  But he did not hurt me intentionally."

"How many times?"

"Three."

My father looked uncomfortable.  "Three is not excessive, but it is unnecessary.  Is that why you left?"

"No."

"Did you not enjoy the act itself?"

"I might have enjoyed it more, sir, with someone who liked me better."

"What do you mean?"

I could not explain myself.  "I would have preferred an Apollo to an Ares, sir, to be my erastes."

My father looked at me with puzzlement.  "I do not understand."  His voice was not unkind and as he sat down, I tied to gather my thoughts.

"Why does he not have a wife, father?"

My father looked disconcerted.  "He has been away on long campaigns, and he is still a young man."

"He is thirty three, father."

"That is still a young age.  But I agree most men are married by that age.  I believe there was a wife a few years ago, but she died shortly after the wedding."

I had not known that.  Quietly, I said, "He told me he did not much care for women."

My father stilled.  "Did he," he said deliberately. 

My father was very quiet and I feared I had said the wrong thing.  I feared that he was angry and would do something rash.  After a long moment, he let out a deep breath.  "Myron," he said, "you are not to repeat anything you have just told me to anyone else.  Do you understand me?"

"Yes, father."

"If you meet him again, you are to be respectful and polite as you would to any other neighbour.  I too will behave with courtesy to him, and we will not mention this matter again.  It would be dishonourable to sully a man's reputation without due cause."

"Yes, sir."

"We will simply tell people that you had a disagreement with him and came home.  That is nothing less than the truth.  Now, eat something and go rest: you look tired.  I will send your mother to you.  She will want to wash the dust off your feet before you trail it through the house."  He stood up.

"Thank you, father."

My father looked at me.  "This family will retain its honour and reputation by not associating itself with that man.  You made a wise choice in coming home, Myron.  You do not need that sort of education."

I nodded solemnly, feeling my heart swell with pride as my father left the room.


End file.
